


Cold Waters and Colder Elves

by LearnToShareFeanor



Series: Fools in Love [5]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Dagor Dagorath, Fall of Gondolin, Grief/Mourning, Losing yourself in grief, Mental Instability, Multi, Non-graphic reference to a previous rape, Other tags to be added, References to kinslayings, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, fading
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-05-28 19:45:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6342586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnToShareFeanor/pseuds/LearnToShareFeanor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the companion piece to Namo's Halls, and direct sequel to Courting Mishaps. </p><p>Erestor has lost his husband, all his family except for his mother, and his friends in the Fall and Dagor Dagorath. When his mother dies, he must follow Glorfindel's oath, protecting Turgon's heirs. But protecting this particular family is not so easy, and Erestor is fast losing himself. It is hard to have hope when you are utterly hopeless.</p><p>-ON HIATUS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE -</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: So, I know you guys were looking forward to this one in particular, huh? Well, it's a long road from the first age to the third, and a bumpy ride. Better hang on tight. Please let me know what you think! I always love hearing from you. 
> 
> Translations: Parf Edhellen, Quenya, Vakse- sale.  
> Parf Edhellen, Quenya, mīrĭ- precious,valuable

                He felt utterly broken- shattered in a way he’d never felt. His Glorfindel was- _no! Do not think of it!_ With his knives, he slew orc upon orc, functioning only on instinct. This was the battle that, in the future, would be called ‘Dagor Dagorath’.

                It earned its’ name that day. Erestor fought through the day, and the night, and through that day before they got the chance to escape; his mother had to pull him away, still, for some part of him was determined that he should join his husband. And if he could take down a few hundred more orcs with him, well, why not?

                With nothing to do but follow his vow, and the greatest waves of foes in between himself and the royal family, he fought to them, tooth and nail. He would follow Idril wherever she led, likely without question. But the journey, he felt, would be too much for him. Surely, he would fade? He looked to his mother one day, when the sun had only just begun to set, for she had always been a source of strength for him.

                And he did not recognize her. This she-elf- tears ran down her face from limpid gray eyes. Her dusky skin had turned gray, and when he held her, she was cold. Elves did not fill the cold- but it was the dead of winter in the mountains now, and a grieving elf could not fight this chill.

                They stayed at the back of their group. Erestor slew their followers until no more followed; Gilyā dropped her heavy war hammer, and did not pick it up again. Her quarterstaff she used as an old dwarf might use a cane. In desperation- for if she died, how could he continue?- he asked her questions until his throat was hoarse, and asked more and more every day.

                “Mother, were you born near the mines in Valinor?”

                “Yes.”

                “Have you ever thought of doing another craft besides smithing?”

                “No.”

                “Are you going to answer all of my questions with one-word answers?”

                “Yes.”

                “Why do you like working with metal?” He asked, hoping that there was not a one-word answer for that.

                She shrugged. “Like making things. Now hush, boy, let us stay silent for a while.”

                He was silent, as she bid, only leaving to join hunting parties to get food and seek out sources of water. When he returned, she was still and quiet. It was only when they laid down to rest that she spoke once more. “I lied.”

                She whispered into the darkness. He rolled over, but she was looking at the sky, not him. “About what?” He whispered back.

                Tears ran down her face. “I told your brother- I chose opals for him because he was most precious to me, and- it was not.”

                “Why, then?” He asked, sensing she needed to speak aloud. She looked at him, and he had never seen such pain in anyone’s eyes.

                “Because they were my bride-price. And I thought he would be as much of a disgrace as his father. And I did not want him.”

                Erestor held his mother that night, as she sobbed until there were no more tears. And in the pre-dawn light, he wept too- for the brother he’d lost, the mate he’d only recently found, and the mother who was so clearly broken.

                The next day, it was as if she had never spoken at all. “How old are you?”

                “Seven hundred and fifty-eight.”

                “What were your parent’s names?”

                “Vakse and Mīrĭ.”

                “Is your favorite color really gray?”

                “Yes. Now be quiet.”

                Again, he let her be as she bid, and left to find them food as well as to see when they would reach- wherever Idril was leading them. He did not care at this point. When he returned: “I am dying.”

                “I know. So am I.”

                Quiet, once more. The cold embraced him, but- and he cursed this- the burn of the vow which had passed to him when his husband died would not let the chill reach his core.

                They were silent for the next week, though they walked an arms-breadth apart, and slept right beside one another. Then: “Ask me what you want when we get there.”

                “Where?”

                “You’ll see. Follow.”

                His mother had always had a sixth sense for metals, whether they lay in the ground or in a merchant’s stall. She led him, unfailingly, for several days away from their group, and they found themselves at the entrance to an abandoned mine. He followed her in, and she spoke more than she had in weeks as she told him all she knew about the earth they were under. She told him of her education in Valinor, of her family’s work. She told him the many minute little secrets of her craft, and swore him to secrecy and to remember. She told him of the evils done to her by his father, of the escapades Ecthelion had gotten up to as a child, of some of his own that he did not remember.

                They found a place at the very bottom of the mine, and she began to dig through their packs and into the earth. Her cloak was stripped off as was all of her jewelry, and she laid down in what he now recognized as a grave, bidding him to sit with her.

                She laid her head in his lap, and he asked her questions. And she answered, as fully as she could, though many were painful to her. They grew hungry, but she refused the food he’d bought, stating that she would not need it very soon, and made a request of him.

                “My circlet, my jewelry, everything of mine- sell them if you’ve need of funds. Do not starve for a memory.” She took his hand and bid him- “Cover me with earth here, if you will. I do not wish to burn; it is not the way of _my_ people. And do not weep overly long, my son, for we will see another once more across the sea.”

                He agreed through his own tears, and held her tightly, stroking the unbound black hair. After a few hours, he began to scream; she no longer breathed and her heart did not beat.

                Erestor wrote in his diary, always on his person, when he grew somewhat more sane. He wrote those little secrets, those hidden facts,  and his own sorrow. And he buried his mother in the cold earth, carving her name in the wooded supports when he left.

                With nothing more to do, and only pain as his company, he followed the painful burning of his vow and the tracks that the elves had left. It was then he wished he would find some orcs; doubtless, their deaths would ease his pain, at least for a little while.


	2. A Lord without his people

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hey, as promised, here's chapter 2 of Cold Waters and Colder Elves! As for Archer’s Notes, I don’t know if I’m going to have an update for the main story until a few more weeks, but I am planning on getting out little character-building one-shots for the following people: Arwen, Elladan, Elrohir, Bard, and (hopefully) Glorfindel. And you’ll find out why Tauriel has an uncle named Feanor. But that’s in a different story, so if you’re only here for the Courting Mishaps Verse, please feel free to skip over the above info and start reading below! 
> 
> Trigger warning: Cauterization with a hot poker. 
> 
> Willow bark- this is a natural pain, inflammation, and fever reducer. For a long time, it was the active ingredient in Aspirin.  
> Arnica- another natural pain reliever.   
> Thand- Sindarin, Parf Edhellen, Shield.  
> Deil- Sindarin, Parf Edhellen, Beautiful and fine.  
> Tarlang- Sindarin, Parf Edhellen, Proud, obstinate, and stiff-necked.  
> Dinhross- Sindarin, Parf Edhellen, Whisper quiet.  
> Craban- Sindarin, Parf Edhellen, Crow or raven.

                It was four days before he caught up with the marching elves. Immediately, those of his own house welcomed him, and asked of their mistress. He was forced to deliver the painful news, but he did not weep.

                There were no more tears in him to cry.

                He found his way towards the front of their party, to Idril and Tuor. Sirion, they said. It was the only place close enough that they felt had not been touched too heavily by Morgoth’s evil. They thought they could run; he privately thought an army of armed Noldor marching into Telerin country, no matter how peaceful their intentions. After some more thought, he left privately after taking a copy of Tuor’s map and telling him he would see if they would be welcome. The remainders of the ruling family of Gondolin told him that they would continue their path, unless he stopped them, and tried to send someone with him.

                The other elf, some scion of Duilin, was left far behind within the first few hours. Hopefully, he’d found his way back to the main group. More likely, he was food for the wolves around these parts. Erestor simply did not _care._

                He left his remaining people behind to take the long, winding road to Sirion. He took the hard road, through the occasional orc, vicious wolf pack, difficult mountains, and white-rushing rivers. If he was right, he’d make Sirion _weeks_ before they did.

                In just under two moon-cycles, he stumbled up a cliff face to be confronted with the gleaming spires of Sirion, and the gray havens below. He climbed down the cliff, and walked into the city. Erestor had no idea of the sight he made; a steely-eyed, hard-faced Noldor, hair tied back in warrior and mourning braids, a bow and quiver on his back, two long half-swords strapped to his thighs, filthy leather and chain mail somehow still shining. His arms were now bare, and wrought from a lifetime at a forge, hardened by battle practice, tested and tempered by his trials, Erestor was not bulky; but he was, without a doubt in the mind of the frightened populace, a warrior. He wore the pelt of a bear he’d slain as his cloak, and strode into the town, head high and straight forward, like a wolf with eyes on his prey.

                The comparison was warranted- he knew exactly where a mayor’s or councilor’s office would be- in those towers. He stopped a magistrate with a firm hand on the terrified elf’s shoulder and asked to speak to whomever was in charge.

                The magistrate, after swallowing a few times, directed him to a set of private rooms to bathe and make himself presentable before scurrying off to find- his leader, Erestor supposed.

                The dark haired elf was forced to dump the copper tub no less than five times before he was able to finish washing without turning the water black with ichor, dirt, ash, and blood. He washed his clothing and armor in the same water before hanging the cloth and leather out to dry and polishing his armor. He wept anew when he realized- he had not taken his pack when leaving. He had taken Glorfindel’s. He used his mate’s comb and the sage-scented hair oil that smelled so much like _him._ It was with difficulty that he stoppered the bottle and replaced it instead of destroying it in a fit of rage- his mate was _gone!_ His brother, his mother, _gone!_ They were _never coming back._

                After this was done, he noticed that there were new splotches of red. In a great mirror, he observed himself and saw several festering wounds- an awful one on his arm, which his mother had stitched close as best she could before succumbing to her shattered heart, as well as many lacerations across his sides and one with tendrils of black and green sweeping up his left thigh. He walked into the main room and glanced out the window. He had until sunset- it was not quite high noon.

                Viciously, he chewed on sticks of dried athelas to break the herbs open, and stuffed them in his wounds after cleaning them. He used one entire stick for the one on his leg. Then, he set about sealing them. A few rolls of slightly dirty bandages did nicely for the ones about his sides and arm, but he knew without a doubt that it would not work for his leg. This, he remembered, was from a warg. The beast had torn into his leg and torn a chunk of flesh from him; there was too much missing to sew it closed, and if he did not close it, he feared it would never heal.

                He caught sight of the iron poker near the roaring fireplace and looked down to his leg again. There would likely be healers below who could do better by his leg, anyway.

                Erestor thought of the hundreds, _thousands,_ of people who died because his plans were not entirely successful. How many mothers and fathers would never see their children again? How many had become orphans? All because he had not moved a mountain fast enough. He set the poker in the fire, and when it was glowing yellow-hot, bit down on one of his boots. The smell of searing flesh filled his nostrils and he nearly blacked out in pain. When he had calmed, he spat out the rancid leather and looked down. The wound was sealed. Messily, painfully, but sealed nonetheless, with a large packing of athelas inside of it to fight off infection. He set the poker in the fire again to clean it, and stood it up in its’ rightful place.

                Gasping with every breath, he limped to the bathing chambers once more to wipe the sweat from his brow and blood from his leg. He wrapped it with bandages, then, and chewed on some willow bark he’d gathered in the forest.

                A frightened servant who no doubt had lost the contest to clean the latrines, sweep out the stables- anything except attend the frankly terrifying Noldo in their midst, knocked on the door and offered him new clothing with shaking hands and bowed head. He nodded his thanks and dressed himself without assistance. He was far too befouled now to allow an innocent to touch him. He servant did not deserve that.

                His leggings were plain brown leather, and he wore his own boots, though he gladly wore the offered socks. His own needed to be tossed in the fire. The tunic they offered was red and unadorned except for yellow and orange thread in flowering patterns about his arms, collar, and the tunic’s bottom. His own was still drying, and likely needed to be burned as well, so he wore it. He re-bound his hair in mourning braids and the stern braids of a soldier. He could not bear to look at the jewels or circlets in his pack. Still, remembering his mother’s advice, he took her rings and necklaces. If needed, he would buy their shelter.

                Erestor rested fitfully, though the bed they provided was fine indeed. He sharpened his blades again, though they needed it not, and wore only one of them on his left hip. It was tradition- at least with his own people- to wear at least one weapon to a meeting. That way, they could surrender them as a show of peace. Swallowing again, he did not wear the battle-scarred one, but the fine bejeweled one of tooled leather which his brother had given him on his begetting day several years ago.

                By sunset, his armor had been polished to a shining glimmer once more, as had the leather undergarments, and he had mended his tunic. The socks he had thrown in the fire; he would wear the extra sets Glorfindel had packed, as there was no hope for his own.

                There was no hope at all. Except for his people. They could have hope- and so he waited calmly for sunset after donning his wedding ring, and followed the servant and armed guards when they came for him.

                He was led to an open receiving chamber with a fine-dressed Lord sitting behind an equally fine birch table and what looked like an old sailor in brown-ish stained canvas pants and a plain blue shirt which had patches on the elbows. Erestor filed the sailor away in his mind- something seemed off about him. He bowed politely and offered a guard his blade. The Telerin in question seemed both worried and confused, and the Lord sputtered for a moment. The sailor spoke.

                “Take it, Thand, they do that to show no harm.” Once the guard had done so, the sailor focused on him and turned in his own thin-bladed knife, likely good for fish. Once more, he nodded to the sailor in silent thanks. “They warned me that I had an evil-looking Noldo visitor!”  He stated cheerfully. “Ignore Deil, he has to observe these things. Now! Call me Cirdan. What can I do for you?”

                “I would ask more what we could do for one another.” He answered, remembering his old lessons- everyone wanted something. “I have a warning for you, Lord Cirdan of Sirion. There is an army of orcs headed your way.”

                One could have dropped a quill and heard it clearly before Cirdan abruptly cursed, violently. “Allright, and what can we do for one another, lad? ‘Tis just Cirdan, unless you’re wanting money. Then you’d better keep the Lord part.”

                He shook his head. “Nay. Though I will gladly offer what I have to you, if necessary. The hidden city has fallen.” Cirdan winced in pain and looked down.

                “So that is where you come from.”

                “Yes.” He confirmed. “A large group of my people have survived. They need healers, food, and shelter. In return- our best warriors have survived. We will fight for you, and will not raise a hand or blade against you or your people.”

                Cirdan looked doubtful. “It is not that I doubt you, boy, you seem like the honest sort. The kind who’s lost too much to care for lies.” The blue eyes observed him carefully. “But if there’s a small army of Noldo coming to our doors, I’ll need more than just the word of a common soldier.”

                He rose to his full height, and dumped out his purse. “You may recognize the work. I am Erestor, only surviving son of the warrior-smith Gilyā, Lord of the House Silver Fountains and the Golden Flower. It is mostly my folk who have survived, and they will obey their Lord in this time of danger. The others will obey their Queen, Idril, daughter of Turgon, the son of Fingolfin who challenged Morgoth himself.”

                The elf, who oddly enough had a bit of stubble on his face, blinked at him and laughed. “Oh, it seems that we have both played the same game! I, an ordinary sailor, you a plain soldier. Both of us Lords in our own right. Allright, lad. Where are your people? If they will help us, they can come.”

                He bowed his head in thanks once more and removed the map from his tunic, unfolding it. He showed Cirdan where he had split from them at and the smoother, longer route that they took. The other elf looked at him in surprise. “Sweet Ulmo, you climbed the mountains and made your way through the Great Forest instead of taking the paths?”

                “Aye, I would do so again, and more for my people.”

                Cirdan gave him another searching look and then promised to send out birds and scouts to find them. He then questioned Erestor about the subject of the orcs. “How many are there?”

                “I lost count of their number; they blackened the fields below Gondolin. Most are dead, still upwards of one thousand still hunt us and any other elven settlement on the way. The others refused to hear our warning.”

                “Trust me, I am grateful for it.” Cirdan said distractedly, tracing paths across the maps. “Deil! Get the captain of the guard and a few scouts. And hurry!”

                At the sound of the ruckus, the guards burst in again, but Cirdan waved them out. “Go! If you must do anything, give him back his blade and get the captain. We’ve a war on our hands.”

                Looks of shock greeted this response, but they skittered away after returning his blade. Erestor sheathed it. “How long do we have, Erestor of Gondolin?” He demanded.

                “They’ll probably be a day or two behind the main party, so at least another month. If they go my way, perhaps a week or two.” The lesson to include eventualities that were highly improbably had been a lesson recently and harshly learned.

                “Wargs?”

                “With very sharp teeth.” He glanced at the near-panicked expression. “Cirdan, do your people, besides the guards, have anything better than shoddy armor, and do they know how to fight?”

                He groaned. “No, we have not _needed_ to fight! I recommended it, and even ordered it a few times, but security has gone lax around here. The captain would have to enforce it, and he believes it unnecessary.” Cirdan sighed. “I control the civilians, but he controls the warriors, and so alone, I cannot challenge him. It would bring on a civil war we cannot fight.”

                Erestor took the information in and continued, filing that information away in his mind. “Have you accounts of the amount of steel and iron you have available, and a forge or smithy I can use? I can show your people how to produce better armor and weapons. And you can have your idiot captain teach some lessons.”

                He glanced up sharply at the term idiot, but before he could reprimand the elf, another walked in with a few scouts. He guffawed loudly. “Oh, what’s this? Another sharp-tongued Noldo? Would you like me to remove him?”

                Erestor gave the elf a once-over. The captain was fat, perhaps too much food and drink and too little exercise. He was sweating and eyeing Erestor nervously, so he guessed that the captain was just bluffing. He would probably prefer not to have his offer accepted. The elf was obviously arrogant, and judging from the irritated and frightened expressions on his lightly-armored scouts faces, not well-respected by his warriors.

                He walked to the captain before Cirdan could answer, and found to his amusement that the captain, tallest in the room, stood only neck-high to him. For once in his life, he was the tallest in the room. “No, Captain. I do not need to be removed. I need an explanation.”

                He traded glances with Cirdan, who nodded to his captain. “Well, Tarlang? Are you going to ask him what he needs an explanation for?”

                Tarlang looked between the two of them, fear obviously growing. “W- what do you require, my Lord?”

                ‘ _Now that’s a different tune.’_ Erestor thought to himself. “There is an army of orcs on their way to this place. If unchecked, they will kill every ellon, elleth, and elfling. You have more than enough warriors and civilians to fight, but your Lord states you refuse to teach them. Here, then, is my question. Why do you want the people you command and protect to die?”  
               

                It was harsh, he knew, but it was a sad truth. If these people did not adapt, they would be slaughtered. He spluttered and objected. Erestor looked at him, unimpressed, and stepped to the scout on his left. “Your name?” He asked.

                He shook, but answered. “D-d-dinhross, my Lord.”

                “Dinhross. Are you willing to follow your captain to the death?” He asked, and the youngster’s eyes widened.

                “Now, all those scare tactics are not necessary!” The captain roared.

                He turned, and roared right back- he seemed to forget he was Noldo. The Telerin might sound sweet, but the Noldo could be loud as thunder. “The truth is not a scare tactic! What is your answer?”

                The captain shook and looked to his leader, who shrugged with a half-smile. In Cirdan’s opinion, it had been a long time in coming. “Don’t look to me, Tarlang. I told you a dozen times to make better drills and offer civilian lessons.”

                He spun around to Cirdan. “There is an army coming your way. We may not be good at many things the Telerin are,” he said diplomatically, “but the Noldo can fight. With your permission, I will take over- he can keep his precious title, I do not want it.”

                Cirdan nodded. “Allright, sounds fair.”

                Tarlang began to object again, and Erestor raised an eyebrow towards him. “I’ll get what I can together of the smith’s guild together, you can have a meeting with them tomorrow. Tarlang, you’re dismissed, head to your quarters. Erestor-“

                Cirdan stopped, obviously unsure if he could command the dark-haired warrior in front of him. Erestor bowed perfunctly, and he continued. “Erestor, if you would, see the healers. I’m sure that you have wounds that need to be taken care of.”

                He shook his head. “I have already handled them.” He answered.

                Cirdan raised an eyebrow. “I suppose you Noldo must be good healers with how much you like to fight. In that case, you can head upstairs to your rooms, or Dinhross will show you to the mess hall for the soldier. Or a tavern, whichever is your preference.”

                “Thank you.” He answered.

                Tarlang, foolishly, objected once more. “I have been captain for nigh twenty years, and this little- _upstart-_ will not take my position!”

                Erestor turned, eyes blazing. “An upstart, you say? I say an improvement.” He spat.

                “You cannot take my place, fool!” He snapped, and Erestor snarled like a warg, sending the captain tripping backwards, and causing the other elves in the room to jump.

                “You are incompetent. If you say I cannot, how about a fight to prove I can?”

                His tongue dripped with vitrol, and Cirdan stepped in between them. “A fight is hardly necess-“

                “I agree! And if I win, you leave.”

                He grinned viciously, attempting to copy the snarl his old childhood friend, Rog, wore when he was challenged by someone who could actually hold a candle to his skills. Unbeknownst to him, Rog’s sneer seemed like the loving smile a mother would send a newborn compared to his own. “And if I win- you step down. No more arguments.”

                Cirdan rested his head in his hands. “Erestor? Don’t kill him. Please.”

                The grin widened. “Oh, no worries about _that._ ” He was feeling that rush just before he fought an enemy, the kind that made him feel _alive_ again. No, he wouldn’t kill Tarlang. He might want to fight him again.

                The captain seemed to realize just what he’d gotten himself into, but as he had agreed, he could hardly back out now. His pride would suffer, and that was something he just would not deal with. Besides, he thought, the Noldo was obviously young, and didn’t seem to be past his majority yet. His centuries of fighting experience and decades of being a captain had given him the advantage in expecting what his enemy would throw at him. And dirty tricks- those, too, would help, he knew. “When do you want to do this?”

                “Now is fine with me. Unless you’d like to wait and prepare yourself.” He offered belatedly, realizing that he himself was physically exhausted, and the captain probably wanted to don armor.

                He nodded. “Dinhross? Before you show this interloper the mess hall, show him the training yard. We meet in an hour.”

                Erestor agreed, and Cirdan held a hand. “I have some rules for this.” Both elves looked at him. “No killing.” Despite Erestor’s word, he knew the history of the Noldo and his people, and he also knew what a battle-rage could do to someone. “No permanent injury. No weapons.”

                The two elves nodded, and Erestor turned to the young scout. “Dinhross, I have no idea where my quarters are. Could you guide me there? I would hate to ruin these.”

                Nonchalance, he knew from experience (and amusement, after watching several of his brother’s and Glorfindel’s fights) was the ultimate way to get under an opponent’s skin and make them nervous. Of course, he did not need much to get under Tarlang’s.

                The quiet scout bowed, and at Cirdan’s nod, left, Erestor following.

                Once they had left, Cirdan scowled at Tarlang. “I sincerely hope he does not kill you. Otherwise, I would have to sail to get at you once he’s finished.” He snapped. “Craban, take your captain to his quarters. He isn’t allowed to leave until it’s time for the competition.”

                Tarlang, predictably, began to argue, and Cirdan saw red. “Are you _mad,_ you fool?!” He demanded. “You are about to be beaten, and possibly killed, by a Noldo, and you would argue about fairness?! GO!”

                He went. Seething, he ordered his guards to split; half to guard Tarlang’s door, half to guard Erestor’s. Deil, who had been standing behind the captain, he ordered to make an announcement to the main halls and every nosy grandmother. There would be a fair fight in the training yard between Tarlang and a young elf who would possibly take his place. Tarlang was unpopular- no doubt, it would be well-attended.

                Once he was finally left alone, Cirdan sighed heavily and sat on the table, fingering one of the silver rings. He wondered if he was mad for thinking the Noldo might be more an elf of his word than his captain. He wondered at the fate of his people. He packed up the jewels and put them in a safe behind his desk, and went to the river to speak to the Water-Lord. Sometimes, Ulmo spoke back. Usually, it was just a way for him to get away from the pressures of ruling a people for a little while.

                His stay by the water’s edge was shorter than he would have liked. The fight would begin soon. He left to the yard to oversee preparations and save himself a seat.

                Erestor invited the scout into his chambers before changing his tunic. He turned at the scout’s gasp. “Yes?” He asked.

                “You are- wounded. If you do not want to go downstairs, I can get a healer to come.” He said, and Erestor realized the elf was simply naturally quiet.

                He shook his head. “I have done what can be done. Time will tell the rest.” He changed into his leather leggings in the bathing chamber, with the door shut. If he was worried about the wounds on his chest and arms, he would no doubt faint over the wound on his leg. After a moment’s hesitation, he wrapped it again with another row of bandages for extra padding. There was no telling where Tarlang would hit, and he realized suddenly that he’d never fought someone shorter than himself. He took out his braids and tied them again, this time in a way which kept it out of his face, and tied the rest in the horse-tail he’d learned from his mother. It would have no chance of blocking his vision.

                Though his enemy could grab ahold of it. He nearly vomited at the memory of the sight of his beloved being dragged down. Of his mother’s face when she told him about his brother.

                He swallowed, squared his shoulders, and sat across from the scout in the sitting room. There was nothing to do but wait now.

                Tarlang was not so quiet in his preparations. He wore his finest leather armor, studded with pieces of wood and steel for extra strength. He wore his favored cloak of bright yellow with its’ golden broach- of course, it was not really gold. It was plain wood, but he had had it varnished in the stuff with part of the funds meant for better materials for his men. He braided his hair as normal; it was not a utilitarian style, but it looked impressive. He wore his rings- again, embezzled from military funds- knowing that they were fine to look upon, and would certainly cause greater pain from his fists. Altogether, he was the very picture of a Telerin warrior.

                This was ruined by the gut which his armor only emphasized and the extra meat about his jowls. Still, he was confident in the outcome of this match. That Noldo spawn would regret his decision to come to Sirion.

                At the appointed time, Tarlang and Erestor both left their rooms. Tarlang, who lived just above the training yard (and often objected about the noise), only had a minute’s walk. Erestor, in one of the upper rooms in the spires, had six flights of stairs as well as a good twenty minute walk; needless to say, he and his entourage had left early. By the time he arrived, his leg was causing shooting pain to shred throughout him. He chewed more willow bark, coated in arnica- the most he could without making himself sick.

                It had the unfortunate effect of making him lightheaded; he had not eaten a full meal for nearly three days. He steeled himself, and automatically reached for one of his blades. Of course, it was missing- he had nearly forgotten that he was fighting hand-to-hand instead of in one of the battles he’d fought in his youth.

                A gong rang, and Dinhross gestured for him to go forward. He stepped up until he and Tarlang were only a few arm-lengths away. Cirdan announced the competition, and the people as well as the competitors sized one another up.

                The Telerin looked upon Tarlang, and found that, to a lack of surprise, he was well-armored, such that only an elf with a weapon would have a chance. He was never fair, so they simply ignored their captain. The new elf was much more interesting. This elf had his hair braided in an alien manner, tied back oddly, and he wore a plain tunic and leathers with boots; he, at least, had some respect for fairness.

                Tarlang nearly laughed- _this_ is what he called prepared? Coming to a fight without armor, and nothing that- although was not a weapon- would cause greater damage? The warrior seemed oddly shaky, and his eyes were slightly glazed; he promised to thank whomever had drugged him before the fight. With a flourish, he removed his cape and gave it to an attendant.

                Erestor looked at Tarlang and frowned. Armor to a fistfight. Perhaps the Telerin thought of this as an equal match. He’d have to aim for the captain’s face, a prospect which appealed to him greatly. Still, his stomach was rolling, and the herbs he had taken were making him sleepy as well as dizzy. He looked out to the crowd to draw strength; they may hate him, but if he won this, he would have the chance to save them, something he had been unable to do with his own folk. He turned his head back to his opponent and nodded politely.

                He heard Cirdan ask for any objections. To his shock, and to the soldiers around them, Dinhross raised his voice. “My Lord, Lord Erestor is wounded, and surely you think his armor is unfair, yes?”

                That brought clamors from the crowd as well as some of the guards who began to look at their captain dubiously. To fight hand to hand combat in armor- it seemed all well and good when he was fighting one of the Noldo, but against a wounded opponent?

                Tarlang sneered. “You hear them, _Lord_ Erestor. Can you fight, or do you surrender?”

                Cirdan interrupted. “He can fight, or it will be postponed, Tarlang, this shall not be a surrender.”

                The sneer fell, and Erestor considered his options. Right now, he had the will of the crowd and the guards on his side, something he would desperately need in the coming weeks. If he chose to fight him later, that goodwill would no doubt fade, and he would be just another dangerous Noldo.

                “If he does not object, I can fight.” He then added. “Thank you for your concern, Dinhross.” The scout blinked at him- Erestor had thought, and quite rightly, that no one cared to learn the scout’s name and he was easily forgotten. Erestor made a habit of never forgetting a name. Or a face.

                Cirdan closed his eyes. “As you wish. The fight will begin at the sound of the gong! Move once before then, and you are disqualified!” This was said more to Tarlang who was rocking back and forth on his feet, clenching and unclenching his fists; the Noldo stood woodenly.

                After a moment, the gong rang, and Tarlang struck. The elf hit hard, but, Erestor thought in amusement, he was nothing compared to his brother. He did not move despite the force, and Tarlang’s surprise showed on his face as he fell forward. Erestor grasped that wrist and drove his fist hard, right into the other elf’s nose. He fell backward, but Erestor jerked him back up and hit him again before releasing him and stepping back.

                He rolled to his feet, stumbling around and spitting out blood and teeth. Enraged, Tarlang came at him again, this time throwing a fist into his gut that he was too slow to block. Erestor pulled him close in a mockery of an embrace and drove his forehead down into Tarlang’s in a vicious head-butt. In a pique of viciousness, he let the elf go before backhanding him hard enough to send him sprawling again. The backhand was not necessary and did not cause any damage, but it was the ultimate insult. All about them, people roared, some urging the captain to get to his feet and kill him, some calling an end to the bout, and others cheering and laughing for the dark-haired creature in the midst of their silver- and golden-haired people.

                Erestor rolled his shoulder as he stood again, cheeks blazing crimson, blood running down his face. Erestor moved to a fighting position, legs shoulder width apart, wincing when he jostled his leg. Tarlang noticed, and charged him, feigning another punch to his gut. Erestor bent to block it, and nearly blacked out at the sudden, extreme pain. He fell over onto the other elf, bringing them both down, and then in rage, slammed both fists into Tarlang’s. Pain shot into his hands, but judging by the pained cry, he’d hurt Tarlang worse than himself. Viciously, he rolled them, pinning one arm behind him and, remembering all the times he’d done this to his brother and Glorfindel, aimed for the sensitive area on his side, just underneath his ribs.

                Unlike Ecthelion or his husband, however, Erestor did not love Tarlang. Not even close. There was no gentle playfulness here, and Tarlang shrieked in agony. He rolled off of the other elf as he convulsed before rising to his knees and vomiting in pain.

                ‘ _Here’s one good thing about not eating for a few days.’_ Erestor thought to himself. ‘ _I don’t have anything to throw up.’_

The match was called to an end after Erestor clambered to his feet. He was declared the winner and escorted out of the training yard. He unashamedly leaned on the scout, trying to avoid putting pressure on his wounded leg. “You know, I think I shall take that healer now.”

                The scout huffed at him, and instead of going all the way back to the towers, he saw an army medic who tore him a proverbial new hole after seeing the state of his leg. He was ordered, new captain or not, to rest for at least two weeks before heavy duty. He told the healer that it wasn’t going to happen and limped out to her objections. He got something to eat in the mess hall, and afterwards felt quite a bit better. After sitting down and answering any questions directed to him by soldiers or the occasional shocked civilian, he felt more up to walking. Of course, that was when the healer came in, scowling fit to honor his mother.

                “You!” She snapped. “A warg nigh tore off your leg, then Tarlang hit you in it, and you intend to _walk_ back?!”

                “I walked here.” He answered simply, though the half-hour walk and then six flights of stairs sounded like a very bad idea, now that he thought about it.

                In the end, he was given quarters in the barracks, and Dinhross promised to deliver his things to him. He met the leader of the smith’s guild there, and gave orders for armor, weapons, and arrowheads. At signs of confusion, he ended up drawing up plans of each and every piece of armor and weaponry he required. He told them to get on with the weapons and arrowheads but wait on the armor.

                Exhausted, he fell into a nightmare-ridden sleep.  


End file.
